Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter by Seth Grahame-Smith Read Free Book Online Page B

a soul what I’d seen, lest they think me a fool, or a liar or worse. What had I seen, anyway? I might have dreamed it for all I knew. When Mordecai came running with the flintlock—when he demanded to know what happened—I broke down crying and told him the only thing I could. The only thing he’d have believed—that it was a Shawnee war party that killed our daddy. I couldn’t tell him the truth. I couldn’t tell him it was a vampire.”
Abe couldn’t speak. He sat across from his drunken father, letting the occasional cracks of burning wood fill the void.
I had listened to hundreds of his stories, some collected from the lives of others, some recounted from his own. But I had never known him to invent one, even in his present state. Frankly I did not think his mind capable. Nor could I think of a sensible reason to lie about such a thing. That left only one unsettling possibility.
“You think I’ve gone round the bend,” said Thomas.
It was precisely what I thought, but I gave no answer. I had learned to keep my mouth closed on such occasions, rather than risk the angry misinterpretation of some innocent remark. I resolved to sit in silence until he sent me away or fell asleep.
“Hell, you’ve got every reason to.”
He took a swallow of last week’s work * and looked at me with a softness I had never seen in him before. Putting everything else aside for the moment and seeing the two of us, not as we were, but as we might have been in some better life. Father and son. That his eyes presently filled with tears both astonished and frightened me. I felt him pleading with me to believe. Yet I could not believe something so foolish. He was a drunk telling a story. That was all.
“I’m telling you because you ought to know. Because you… deserve the truth. I’m telling you that I’ve seen two vampires in my life. The first was in that field. The second…”
Thomas looked away, fighting back tears again.
“The second was named Jack Barts… and I saw him just before your mama died….”
Father had spent the summer of 1817 committing the sin of envy. He’d grown tired of watching his neighbors reap kingly profits by planting wheat and corn on their land. He’d grown tired of breaking his back to build the barns they used to get rich, while sharing in none of the spoils. He felt, for the first time in his life, something like ambition. What he lacked was capital.
Jack Barts was a squat, one-armed man with a taste for expensive clothes and a thriving shipping business in Louisville. He was also one of the few Kentuckians in the business of giving private loans. Thomas had done some work for him as a young man, loading and unloading flatboats on the Ohio River for twenty cents a day. Barts had always treated him kindly and paid him promptly, and when they’d parted company, it had been with a handshake and an open invitation to return. More than twenty years later, in the spring of 1818, Thomas Lincoln took him up on that offer. With his hat in his hands and his head hung low, Thomas sat in Jack Barts’s office and asked for a loan of $75—precisely the amount he needed to buy a plow, a draft horse, seeds, and “everything else one needed to grow wheat, short of sunshine and rain.”
Barts, who looked “hale and hearty as ever in his one-sleeved violet coat,” agreed at once. His conditions were simple: Thomas would return with $90 (the principal plus 20 percent interest) no later than September 1st. Any profits earned above that were his to keep. Twenty percent was more than twice what any respectable bank would’ve charged. But seeing as Thomas didn’t technically own anything (having merely helped himself to his plot at Little Pigeon Creek), he had no collateral—and nowhere else to turn.
Father accepted the terms and went to work felling trees, pulling stumps, plowing sod, and broadcasting seeds. It was grueling labor. In all, he planted seven acres of wheat by hand. If he yielded thirty bushels an